


Rip and the Dragon

by Nemainofthewater



Category: 10th Century CE RPF, DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: 10th century England, Action/Adventure, Don’t copy to another site, Dragons, Drama, Gen, Jorvik, Political tensions, RipFic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: WHy should we boast of Arthur and his Knights,Knowing how many Men have performed Fights;Or why should we speak of Sir Lancelot du Lake,Or Sir Tristrum du Leon, that fought for Ladies sake,Read old Stories and there you shall see,How St. George, St. George, he made the Dragon flee;St. George he was for England, St. Denis was for France,Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence.Rip and Gideon land in the 10th century where they learn a Dragon is terrorising the newly formed Kingdom of England.
Relationships: Gideon & Rip Hunter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 10





	Rip and the Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ams75](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ams75/gifts).



> This story was written for ams75 for the RipChat holiday exchange. The prompts that I chose for this story were:  
> -Gideon  
> -Sword  
> -England  
> -dragon
> 
> Shout out to the ‘cloak’ and ‘mead’ prompts, which while present don’t really add much to the story apart from allowing me to (kind of) tick them off my list!
> 
> Ams75, I hope that you like it! And happy holidays and a healthy and prosperous 2020!

_W_ Hy should we boast of _Arthur_ and his Knights,

Knowing how many Men have performed Fights;

Or why should we speak of Sir _Lancelot du Lake,_

Or Sir _Tristrum du Leon,_ that fought for Ladies sake,

Read old Stories and there you shall see,

How St. _George,_ St. _George,_ he made the Dragon flee;

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

“This is a bit theatrical, surely Gideon?” Rip rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. Humbling as it was to admit, especially as a former Time Master who wasn’t meant to have any material attachments, he felt naked without his coat. Or- not naked exactly, but wrong. For better or for worse that coat, stolen years ago as he fled from Jonah Hex’s life, was inexorably linked to him.

Despite the numerous layers of wool and linen he was currently dressed as protection against the cold Britannic weather, and the boiled leather armour on top of that, he felt defenceless.

“I would like to point out, Captain, that my plans have a 75% success rate. What was your success rate again?”

“That’s completely unfair! My statistics are being skewed by my time spent with the Legends who were, despite their efficiency, unable to stick to a plan.”

There was a pointed silence.

Rip sighed.

“Fine,” he said, “25%. Though may I remind you that when I’m the only person I have to account for in my plans-”

“Instances where you achieve the objective but don’t survive the encounter are not ‘successful plans’.”

“But-”

“Neither are instances when you are merely ‘grievously injured’.” Gideon’s voice was firm. The moment that Gideon had found him after his stunt with the Time Demon; unconscious, exhausted, and plagued by some sort of disease brought on by repeated exposure to the Temporal Drive that left him exhausted and white faced one moment and filled with an inexplicable energy the next… the moment that she had found him she had stolen him. Brought him into the Waverider and refused to let him go until he swore that there would be no more self-sacrificial stunts, no more going off on his own and leaving her alone. His protestations that it was the best for all of them, that his life didn’t matter in the face of the entire world- They had fallen on extremely unimpressed ears.

Three months later and they had reached a tentative truce. Rip had been going stir crazy, confined as he was to the ship. He and Gideon both knew that he needed to be able to do something productive, something that helped negate the impact that he’d had on the timeline. Gideon thought it was an incredibly stupid stance to take considering that the Time Masters, whom he had taken down, had done far more to endanger the timeline than Rip, but it was a point on which he would not budge.

Rip himself knew that Gideon was afraid; so afraid that he would leave her. Again. It was not an unreasonable fear: somewhere in his life he had acquired the unfortunate habit of letting people down.

No.

After the long months stuck on the Waverider with nothing to do but _talk_ to Gideon and rediscover their relationship… There were things that he had realised. Or rather that Gideon had (figuratively) beaten into him: the knowledge that he was the only thing that Gideon had left. And that she didn’t want him to die. No matter how strong his own gallant (and the amount of sarcasm imbued in that one word was tangible) impulses were, he was not to give into them, or she would find a way to bring him back. No matter how badly it broke the world.

They were perhaps a little co-dependent. But after everything that they had been through together, Rip rather thought that they had the right to be. And things had been going better lately. There had been no more threats from Gideon that he would wake with a tracking device surgically implanted in him. He had also stuck to his end of the bargain and had not removed his earpiece and contact lenses even once, allowing Gideon to stay in constant contact with him throughout his missions. Not that they really qualified as missions: no what he had been doing were test runs. Small, insignificant tasks to ease himself back into fieldwork and to make sure that nobody was tracking him.

They shouldn’t be: everyone should think that he was dead. That if they were to find any trace of him within history then it was due to a previous version of himself, a past version. With Gideon fled and the Time Masters destroyed there would be no one to contradict that assumption. Just in case, though, Rip and Gideon had agreed to keep an incredibly low profile. Even lower than usual. They should have known that wouldn’t last. Not with his luck and propensity to find himself in the thick of things wherever and whenever he landed.

Case in point: what had happened when he had landed in 10th century (only-just unified) England a few hours ago. Gideon had detected a temporal anomaly, a crack in the fabric of space and time and one that he was dearly hoping was a left-over from his own actions and not the result of more temporal interference by the Time Bureau and the Legends.

He had no sooner draped a cloak over his habitual clothes and wandered out for a quick reconnaissance than he had been almost been run over by a wooden cart, forced to throw himself out of its path and into the relative safety of a nearby puddle. The cart had not slowed, nor had it stopped to check on his wellbeing, proving once and for all that no matter the century British drivers never changed.

The cart hadn’t been the first vehicle to pass him by. No, there was a stream of people making their way along the paved road: wheeling handcarts, bulging packs affixed to long-suffering donkeys, bags and boxes of all sizes being cradled in their arms.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Rip asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” A solemn faced child, no more than eight or nine, stared up at him, ignoring their mother’s frantic gestures to ‘stop talking to strange men, for Heaven’s sake.’ “There’s a dragon come down from the mountains. A big one. My mam says that the King’s got to send a sacrifice to the dragon or it’ll burn us all up.”

“A dragon,” Rip said, bemused.

The girl nodded and, baring her teeth at him, gave a roar.

“Forgive her, sir,” her mother said, hurrying forward and pulling her daughter back from Rip, “She’s just got an active imagination. Or has been talking to those village boys again. Isn’t that right, Leofgyð?”

Leofgyð scowled. “No,” she said, “I saw the dragon and then the lord from the big town came down and said-” Her mother’s hand went tight on her daughter’s shoulder.

“Such an active imagination,” she said firmly, and then the two of them were off, stumbling away and swallowed by the crowd.

Rip, acutely aware of the scowls on the faces of the passers-by and of his status as an outsider at best and an interloper at worst, beat a hasty retreat back to the Waverider. He needed more information. What he had found was not promising. Not promising at all.

Back in the present, he sighed and resisted the urge to scratch his side once again. The replicator was truly a marvel and he would be lost, and horribly anachronistic, without it, but did the clothes that it created have to be so…realistic?

“You’re going to give yourself a rash,” Gideon said. She was not concealing her amusement well.

“Oh shut up,” Rip grumbled, “And scan the area again. Are you sure that the energy spike is next to the city?”

“I’m going to ignore the insinuation that I can’t do my job,” Gideon said.

“You’re,” Rip sighed, “You’re right. I apologise, Gideon. It’s merely that I am not looking forward to having to engage with the timeline again. Not yet.”

“It should be quick enough, Rip,” Gideon said, her voice softening, “In and out. You’ll have to get back on the horse at some point.”

“A horse would be easier,” Rip said. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Well, it shouldn’t be long until I finished your new body and then you can accompany me. Keep me out of trouble.”

One of Gideon’s conditions to Rip’s return to work had been a method to accompany him: she had pointed out that even primitive 21st century technology was capable of human-like robots, and that she was more than capable of piloting a body. The only reason not to comply with her wishes that Rip had been able to find was that it was forbidden by the Time Masters, and well. That excuse had never quite held water even when he was a Time Master himself. So, steadily Rip and Gideon had been designing and testing increasingly complicated chassis that Gideon could control from the Waverider without having to upload herself completely. It was still, however, very much a work in progress with their best prototype being a bird-like creature. Rip regretted that he hadn’t had more time to perfect her human form: as loath as he was to admit it, he had become used to working in a team and would have appreciated the back-up. Not that Gideon’s voice in his ear wasn’t back-up in and of itself but a physical presence would be appreciated. He absently-mindedly touched his ear, checking that his earpiece was still firmly in place and took a deep breath.

“Well,” he said, straightening his clothes one more time in a vain attempt to stop them from itching, “Let’s get this over with.”

#

To speak of Monarchs it were too long to tell,

And likewise of the _Romans_ how far they did excel:

 _Hanibal_ and _Scipio_ in many a field did fight;

 _Orlando Furioso_ he was a valiant Knight;

 _Romulus_ and _Rhemus_ were those that _Rome_ did build,

But St. _George,_ St _George_ the Dragon he hath kill'd:

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

The walls of Jórvík loomed over Rip as he approached the city. The city was bustling as befitted an important river port; carts piled high with timber, vendors driving their horses before them laden with fresh fruit and vegetables, flocks of geese wending their way through the streets, given a wide berth by anyone who spotted them. Rip could barely see the newly constructed streets through the throng of people, though the few houses that caught his eye were conspicuous in their newness, the timber still green and fresh.

The façade of newness didn’t hide the tension permeating the building, the armed guards bearing King Æthelstan’s crest at every crossroads watching the passing traders with a gimlet eye. Banners emblazoned with the newly wrought symbol of the Kingdom of England hung proudly from the battlement. Rip pulled his cloak more tightly around him and loosened his sword in his scabbard. From what Gideon had been able to find, the Treaty of Eamont Bridge had taken place only three months before and he suspected that despite the talk of the glory of a ‘unified England’ that there was more tension than they were willing to admit. Certainly, the Norse traders were scrutinised with particular care.

All in all, the city was simmering with resentment, though all of it appeared to be of the political type as opposed to the temporal or indeed draconic variety. In all honesty, were it not for the temporal readings that had screamed ‘anomaly’ at them then he would be tempted to treat the so-called ‘dragon’ as a metaphorical one and attribute the city-wide exodus to the Anglo-Saxon invasion of the city as opposed to any literal beast’s descent.

“Anything?” Rip murmured under his breath, eyes scanning the crowds warily.

“You’re definitely in the right place,” Gideon said. Her voice was calm and confident, and Rip could feel his heartbeat slowing in response. “My sensors are showing so much temporal energy in the area that I’m surprised that it’s not visible to the naked eye.”

One more slow sweep of the town square. Nothing that he could see. Not unless temporal energy looked like the grey-blue woodsmoke rising from the houses and stalls, wending its way through side-streets until it could make its final ascent into the sky.

“I can’t see anything here,” Rip said, “Can you be more precise than ‘probably Jórvík?’”

“I don’t know,” Gideon said, “Can you be more efficient than just standing in the town square and squinting suspiciously at people?”

“I am not-” Rip spluttered, “Fine! Maybe I am. But there is a solid basis of logic behind this decision.”

“And what’s that, Rip?”

“That sooner or later, the trouble always seems to find me.”

An unimpressed silence.

“Jax really was a bad influence on you,” Gideon said, finally.

“On the contrary,” Rip said as the shouting and commotion trickled over from the other side of the square, the guards exchanging grim looks and running over. “Empirical evidence shows that all I have to do is wait.”

#

_Jeptha_ and _Gideon_ they led their Men to fight,

The _Gibbonites_ and _Ammonites_ they put them all to flight;

 _Hercules_ his Labour was in the Vale of _Bass;_

And _Sampson_ slew a thousand with the Jaw-bone of an Ass;

And when that he was blind, pull'd the Temple to the ground;

But St. _George_ , St. _George_ the Dragon did confound:

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

“I won’t! I won’t let you take her.”

The woman was dressed in a fine woollen dress, dyed a rich blue and covered with a warm fur cloak. Everything about her screamed wealth, from the delicately wrought silver bracelets on her wrists to the long rope of pearls wrapped around her waist. The thing that marked her out the most, however, as being possessed of an uncommon privilege was the fact that she was screaming at the guards surrounding her and that they had not already forced her away.

She was standing in front of another woman, similarly dressed in rich fabrics and soft furs. The two women were of a similar height, that is to say taller than Rip himself, and shared enough common features that Rip felt relatively certain that they were related.

“What’s going on?” Rip asked.

“Rip,” Gideon said in his ear, “Don’t forget that we need to find the time anomaly. That’s going to be hard to do if you’re thrown in prison.” He hummed in acknowledgement but made no other sign. While it was true that it would be mildly inconvenient, to say the least, to be imprisoned (again) in his experience it was most likely those who were in power who attempted to benefit from the chaos that aberrations brought with them. The castle dungeons, while not ideal, were at least potentially closer to the source.

He didn’t acknowledge the part of him that had heard the scream and had run over to its source, to place himself in front of danger without taking into account such petty things as logic. He had become aware over the last few years (with Gideon’s ‘help’) that he had developed something of a hero complex. That didn’t mean that he had to admit it.

One of the guards, the youngest and most inexperienced judging by his clean-shaven face, stepped forward.

“Move along, citizen,” he said in a high, trembling voice. To the side, his fellow guard rolled his eyes but didn’t move to interfere. For one moment Rip met the man’s eyes in mutual contempt and the unspoken message of _rookies_ passed between them.

The woman spun around to face Rip. Her hands, he noted absently, were white knuckled where they were clutching her skirts, and she was literally shaking.

“No,” she spat, “Let him watch. Let them all watch! See what the noble King Æthelstan’s guards are capable of.” She made a wide gesture with her hands, voice raised and swinging around to look the marketgoers in the eyes. Not one of them looked back at her, hurrying along with their heads bowed.

“Helka,” the woman behind her whispered, “Don’t-”

“No, Jorunn,” Helka said, “This cannot go on. I refuse to live in fear any longer, always running. Always afraid that I will be taken next. And more importantly I cannot allow you to be taken. Never.”

She stepped forward once again shaking off the weak attempts of the young guard to restrain her. He gave his older companion a pleading look, but the other man shook his head and leant more comfortably against the wall.

“Gideon?” Rip murmured, “I believe that it’s time to implement the Merlin protocol.” He took a deep breath and stepped forward, hands out before him and away from his sword to show that he was unarmed and not dangerous. The elder guard narrowed his eyes at him and settled his hand on the pommel of his weapon. Rip ignored him.

“Perhaps we can come to some agreement,” he said doing his best to project calm confidence. Unfortunately, his effects to deescalate the situation were met with poor results: he was met with scornful gazes from all sides. He felt that was rather unfair on the part of Helka and Jorunn. After all, he was trying to help. 

“There is no agreement possible!” Helka snapped, “Not when those, those- those bullies feel free to start arresting anyone who so much as looks at them! And where do they go? Where do the unlawfully arrested end up? Surely the King’s dungeons must be overflowing by now-”

“I told you to move along,” the young guardsman said, raising his voice to be heard over Helka. “This isn’t any of your business.”

“Now, Captain,” said Gideon. Rip looked up at the sky. He could see something circling there, weaving between the plumes of smoke.

“Ready on my mark,” he said, glancing down to conceal the movement of his mouth, “Don’t engage unless I give the signal. I’m still hoping to resolve this peacefully. And without buggering up the timeline. Again.”

“Affirmative.” Gideon’s voice was blandly neutral. Rip ignored the implied doubt in her careful statement.

“Gentlemen,” Rip said, louder. “There must be some misunderstanding here-” He kept his voice steady and stared the young guardsman straight in the eyes, daring him to step forward. That proved to be a mistake. Because there was a flash of movement at the corner of his eye and then-

-darkness.

#

_Valentine_ and _Orson_ they came of _Pepin_ 's Blood,

 _Alfred_ and _Aldricus_ they were brave Knights and good;

The four Sons of _Ammon_ that fought with _Charlemain,_

Sir _Hugh de Burdeaux_ and _Godfry de Bullaign,_

These were all _French_ Knights, the Pagans did convert,

But St. _George_ , St. _George_ he pull'd out the Dragon's heart:

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

“-Rip. Rip! Can you hear me? Rip-”

Rip groaned. A marching band of some description had set up shop in his head and was determined to play the cymbals as loudly and as irritatingly as possible. Either that or he had spent the previous evening pass-out drunk and Gideon was punishing him by playing Jax’s music through his quarters, as loudly as possible.

“Stop it Gideon,” he muttered into his bed.

“Rip! You’re awake.”

He sighed and turned over, wincing as the motion sent fresh agony coursing through his head. “Of course I’m awake, Gideon,” he said. His throat was uncomfortably dry, and he coughed. Another point for the overindulgence column. Reaching up he rubbed at his eyes. They were also dry and sore. Of course they were.

“What exactly did I do last night, Gideon-”

He stopped. Because upon opening his eyes he discovered that he was not in fact in his quarters on the Waverider. Nor was he draped on Jonah Hex’s floor, or in his house in London (he pushed down the ache of pain that thought provoked) or indeed anywhere he recognised.

That wasn’t entirely true. He wasn’t anywhere he recognised personally, but it was easy enough to identify what he was in. To put it bluntly, it was a cell. The metal bars made that abundantly clear.

“You got arrested.”

“Yes Gideon, thank you. I had managed to figure that out myself.” He sat up, wincing and touching the side of his head. Dried blood flaked off and out of his hair as he traced the outline of a fairly impressive lump.

“I take it that police brutality has remained fairly consistent throughout the ages?” he said. His tone was light, teasing. He had been in similar situations before and he was sure that he would be in similar situations again. There was no point in getting worked up about what was, regrettably, becoming commonplace.

“You shouldn’t have taken your eyes off the other guard,” Gideon said. Her tone was sombre. “There are only so many times you can avoid a grievous head injury, especially when you’re stuck in a time where arsenic and prayer are the most popular forms of medicine.”

Rip frowned. “I hardly think that’s fair,” he said. “In any case, I have you to look after me.”

A snort. “When you get back to the Waverider,” Gideon said, “Your immediate priority is getting my new body fully functional. Clearly you can’t be trusted on even a simple in and out mission.”

“Why Gideon,” Rip said, “I thought you were the one who said that, what was it, I should get back on this horse?”

“You misunderstood me,” Gideon replied primly, “I clearly meant that you should get back on that horse once there was adequate supervision.”

“By which you mean you.”

“By which I mean me, yes.”

Rip sighed and, seeing as Gideon wasn’t physically present to see it, allowed a fond smile to tug at his lips. He didn’t know what he would do without Gideon, he truly didn’t. He would have been dead a thousand times over without her, that was a certainty.

“In that case,” he said, “I had better make a start on getting out of here.” He paused. “Where am I exactly?” he asked.

“You’re at the royal palace site,” Gideon said, “Located at the East gate of the old Roman fortress, next to the Porta Decumana.”

“How lucky for me. Not York Castle?”

“You can tell that Miranda was the better student,” Gideon said, “As she would be aware that York Castle wasn’t constructed until 1068.”

“Miranda,” Rip said, “Would have been smart enough not to get captured in the first place.” Groaning, he hauled himself to his feet and stood. The world shifted around him dizzyingly for a few moments before steadying. He swallowed and took a deep breath, pushing down the nausea. “Right,” he said, “The crests. King Æthelstan’s crests. And the treaty of Eamont Bridge. This is 927. The unification of England. More than a hundred years before the Normans invade the city.”

“Congratulations, Captain,” Gideon said, “Would you like a gold star?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you only call me Captain when you’re mocking me,” Rip said. He reached out grabbed one of the metal bars. Unfortunately strong and well placed; he wouldn’t be able to remove them. Abandoning that course as useless he crouched down, peering at the lock. Ah. That was more promising.

“I have no idea what you mean. Captain.”

“Of course you don’t,” Rip said. Reaching into his boots, which the guards had thankfully left him, he removed a small, standard lockpicking kit. He didn’t dare bring any future technology with him but there was no harm in keeping a few…esoteric mementoes of his childhood with him at all time. He was, after all, very used to being imprisoned.

“Gideon,” he said, “Meet me upstairs in ten minutes. I think that it’s time we got to the bottom of this.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“Oh,” Rip said, and his mouth stretched into a wolfish smile, “You’ll know when you hear it.”

#

He quartered their Arms, his Honour to advance,

He rac'd their Walls, and pull'd their Cities down,

And he garnished his Head with a double tripple Crown,

He thumped the _French_ , and after home he came;

But St. _George,_ St. _George_ he made the Dragon tame:

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

It was easy. Too easy, although Rip supposed that King Æthelstan wasn’t to be blamed for the fact that Rip was a master of infiltration. His mastery had been hard won, through experience and a long career of being broken out of various cells by his wife, team, or on one notably embarrassing occasion, his mother. It was no wonder that he had rapidly improved in self-defence.

It didn’t take him ten minutes to find the king’s quarters, moving quickly and confidently through the corridors of the repurposed Roman fort. In fact, it took him barely five. They were, however, unsurprisingly empty as it was the middle of the day.

“Ah.”

It took him a few more minutes to successfully locate the throne room, though in that he had to admit that he was helped by the long line of petitioners who were being ferried through the palace. Carefully stepping over a sickly chicken and dodging the peck of a particularly ill-tempered goose, Rip wove his way through the crowd. Discontented grumbles followed him as he made his way further and further to the front of the line, but nobody stopped his approach. He was walking with too much authority for them to do more than moan.

Throne room was perhaps a misnomer. It was a large hall with a fire crackling in a shallow pit, driving away the autumn’s cold. Once, when King Æthelstan’s palace was still the roman fort and Jórvík was still Eboracum, it might have been the Tribunal where court martials and arbitrations were performed. Now, almost eight hundred years later, the drafty hall still rang with the sighs and pleas and exultations of humble (and not so humble) petitioners, seeking their lord’s ruling.

The throne was a chair placed on a grand dais at the end of the hall. The king’s men were letting petitioners into the hall one by one, presumably on the grounds that they couldn’t complain about whatever justice they received if they didn’t know what the others had got. In any case, it made it easy enough for Rip to slip through the doors which, with a final THUMP, closed behind him. Leaving Rip alone (apart from the numerous guards scattered prominently around the room) with the King.

Æthelstan was a young, powerful man in his early thirties. Leaning forward on his throne, face a study in attentiveness. Only his fidgeting hands, twisting round and round in his lap, betrayed his boredom. There was a tankard by his hand, and he took sips from it every so often to whet his throat. As Rip approached the throne, he could smell the distinct smell of fermented honey.

“Your majesty,” Rip said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Royalty- and nobility in general- could be very touchy about that sort of thing and Rip had enough matters to talk through without falling at the first hurdle of _protocol_.

“I’ve come to help,” he said, standing at the king’s acknowledging nod. “I am Sir George-” an innocuous enough name and one chosen at random now that he couldn’t use any of his old aliases and risk being found by the Time Bureau or the Legends, “-of-”

“Silene,” said Gideon in his ear.

“-Silene and I hear that you have a problem with a dragon.”

There was a silence. And then the king straightened and fixed his eyes upon Rip. He didn’t look like a bored young nobleman anymore. He looked like the man who had fought the Danes and the Scots to unite the warring kingdoms and form one England. One land under one ruler. He raised a brow.

“Sir George, is it?” he asked, “And who are you, Sir George, to come into my lands speaking of fairy tales, stirring up problems with my subjects?” He leant back into his chair. “You think that I do not recognise you, Sir George, as the man who should still be confined to my dungeons?”

“I am not one who can be confined by mere steel bars,” Rip returned evenly. He dropped his voice to a murmur: “Gideon. Merlin protocol _now_.”

Immediately Gideon burst through stone roof, flurries of dust and debris in her wake. From outside, Rip could hear the distinct sounds of panicking civilians. The guards weren’t much better: the more experienced of them ran forward to protect the king but some of the newer, or more devout, merely sank to their knees and started to pray.

Gideon was possessing the form of a small, silvery (and entirely mechanical) bird and she swooped around the room with a long sword clasped in her claws. Rip raised his right hand and, in one well-choreographed move perfected over one annoyingly quiet afternoon when neither of them could think of any additional tests for Gideon’s new carapace, caught it. The sword, biometrically locked to Rip’s DNA, blazed a pure, bright white, momentarily blinding everyone looking at it. Rip, forewarned about what exactly it was going to do, squeezed his eyes shut the moment that his hand touched the hilt. The initial burst of light washed over them, painting his eyelids a deep red, and then dissipated leaving the sword glowing softly, no brighter than the moon. 

“A bit strong,” Rip said, “But effective.”

“Now,” he said, raising his voice and his sword. Gideon settled on Rip’s shoulder and looked imperious, metallic feathers ruffling in non-existent wind. He took a moment to be glad that he hadn’t incorporated the wind machine into her avian body as she had requested as he was sure that if he had, his cloak would be blowing dramatically behind him. “Shall we talk about this dragon of yours?”

#

And _Patrick_ you know he was St. _George_ 's Boy,

Seven Years he kept his Horse, and then stole him away,

For which Knavish Act, a Slave he doth remain;

But St. _George,_ St. _George_ the Dragon he hath slain:

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

The Yorkshire Dales were beautiful in the autumn. Quieter and less built up than in Rip’s time- his _adopted_ time- the trees were scarlet and gold and swayed in the breeze. Occasionally an oak leaf would blow his way, dipping and bobbing around his horse’s feet.

They were also astonishingly large. Rip had spent the last day riding from York on his borrowed steed, only stopping to rest his horse, and he still had only managed to reach their edge.

Æthelstan had told him that most reports of the dragon had come from this area, and that this was where he had been sending the sacrifices to appease it. Including Jorunn and her sister Helka. As there had been no sign of them on the road ahead Rip hoped that they had managed to escape.

“Have you managed to fine tune that sensor at all, Gideon?”

Gideon pecked his ear in response and flew off. Rip sighed. She was taking to the new freedom of her form a little too well in his opinion, though looking at her as she played in the sky, chasing after leaves only to release them onto his head, he couldn’t begrudge her for it.

What he could express his annoyance at was the fact that the theatrics that Gideon had planned had led to a veritable procession following him through the moors. It had started as he had left the city, the occasional street urchin staring up at his glowing sword and trailing him through the shadows of the buildings.

Most of them had left him once he passed through the gates of the city. Some of them hadn’t. Some of them had, instead, trailed after him as best they could when they had nothing but the clothes on their back and an understandable apprehension of large, open spaces. Rip had pretended ignorance for the first hour or so, merely slowing his horse down to a walk so that his followers wouldn’t have to tire themselves too much by trying to keep up with a horse. In retrospect, that had been a mistake: if he had just galloped off into the distance then there would have been no way of catching up with him and they might have given up.

If he had just nipped it in the bud… but he hadn’t and that meant that he had also spent a large proportion of the day before gaining the trust of the children following him so that he could place the youngest and least stubborn ones upon his horse when they inevitably stumbled and fell. Little Sassa had spent most of the day riding atop his shoulders and sleepily clutching his cloak as her brother, Thorvaldr, glared up at him whenever he thought that Rip wasn’t watching.

Furthermore, his little contingent grew at each village so that by the time he made camp and distributed the rations that he had quickly procured from one of larger and more prosperous villages his original three followers had multiplied and he was left with a good dozen children. Unfortunately, there were no end to the number of war orphans.

Gideon, from the air, gave a piercing cry: it sounded as though she were playing a recording of a golden eagle, though it would be strange to find one here of all places. She likely wasn’t aiming for verisimilitude; she was just trying to impress her new fans. And indeed, the children around his horse cheered at her cry. Rip sighed. He was going to have a hard time convincing Gideon that they couldn’t keep all these children on the Waverider.

“I’ve found your dragon,” Gideon said into his ear, a circling black dot in the distance.

“It’s not my dragon,” Rip said, “But- well done. Thank you. Where is it?”

“A few hours north of you,” Gideon said, “Near a lake. I can’t see the dragon itself but judging by the damage done to the surrounding vegetation, I can’t imagine what else it could be.”

“You’re going to have to guide me,” Rip said, “And- I’m going to have to find somewhere to leave all these children.”

#

_Tamberlin_ the Emperor in Iron-cage did Crown,

With his bloody Flags display'd before the Town;

 _Scanderbig_ Magnanimous _Mahomet_ 's Bashaw did dread,

Whose victorious Bones were worn when he was dead,

His _Beglerbegs_ his corn-like-dreds, _George Castriot_ was he call'd;

But St. _George,_ St. _George_ the Dragon he hath mauld:

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

Saying that the dragon had nested next to a lake might have been overstating it slightly. Oh, it was near a body of water, that much was true, but lake? It wasn’t quite large enough.

“You’re very judgemental,” Gideon said, “It looked bigger from the air.” Gideon was a few miles back with his horse and the children, watching over them and making sure none of them ran off, but he could see her in his mind’s eye nonetheless; looking smugly superior as she preened her wing. 

Rip sighed. He did not want to get into an argument about this with Gideon, despite doubting the accuracy of her comment. Instead he scanned the area. It was very peaceful: the stream filled the air with crystalline chimes and the willows growing on the banks swayed gently. The only thing that ruined the illusion of bucolic sublimity were the claw marks that littered the ground, the small (and not so small) saplings that had been torn out at the roots, clear claw marks evident on their slender trunks.

The marks looked old, however. When he knelt down to touch one it was smooth and dry under his hands. The wood was most definitely dead and had been for a while. Standing, and absently brushing the dirt off his trousers, he made his way over to the cave. He had no doubt that was where the dragon was nesting.

Drawing his sword, he held it carefully in front of him. He could hear a faint whuffing noise and he wanted to be prepared, dragon or no dragon. After all, unarmed he would fare equally unwell against a bear.

Stepping into the mouth of the cave, he winced as his feet brushed against something brittle, crunching slightly underneath his weight. Glancing down, he could see that it was a few long bones. There were more littering the floor but none of them looked human. Too small. If Rip were forced to guess, then he would say that they were sheep’s bones.

Further in and there was a bend in the tunnel, throwing the space into darkness only barely illuminated by Rip’s softly glowing sword. There was a smell; not entirely unpleasant but not exactly aromatic. Finally, the cave opened out into a large chamber and there- there was the dragon.

“Oh,” Rip said.

The dragon was large: perhaps 20 foot or so in length though it was difficult to tell in the gloom. It was not helped by the way that it was wrapped around itself, its crest moving incrementally as it shivered. It was slender and lightly built, though Rip guessed from the weak way it raised its head to look at the intruder that that was only partly due to genetics and partly to do with lack of food.

He made his way over, picking through the debris; shards of bones and old feathers and shed teeth and claws.

“You’re a long way from home,” he said, standing at a respectful distance and looking down at the dragon. Closer by he could see that the dragon was old; its claws were long and overgrown, its feathers faded and brittle and its limbs were dark and flaking. It looked up at him then, and its eyes were dull and tired. It let out one mournful cheep, and then its head fell. There was one more shuddering breath and then it fell still. Rip waited a long moment. There was no more movement.

Dropping down on his knees before it, he ran a hand along its head. The feathers were fragile under his touch. Its body was cooling swiftly.

“Gideon,” Rip said quietly, unwilling to disturb the silence of the cave. “I found the dragon.”

“Congratulations, Captain,” Gideon said, “I take it from the lack of screaming that it’s dead?”

Rip swallowed, hard. “Yes,” he said, “It’s dead.”

“Rip?” Gideon’s voice gentled, “Rip, what is it?”

“It was a dinosaur. A theropod of some kind, I believe. It must have been stranded here by an aberration when we broke time. Lived out its entire life in a place completely foreign to it, adapting as best it could.”

“But it did survive,” Gideon said, “Survived and adapted and managed to make a life for itself, if anything we were told about how long the dragon has been terrorising the region is true.”

“Survived,” Rip echoed. “Yes, it did manage to survive. But it must have been so _lonely_.”

“Rip, are you-”

Rip stood up. “I’m fine, Gideon,” he said tersely, “I’m just- I’m always fine.” Giving the dragon one last look he turned away and strode back down the tunnel, only pausing to gather a few items. Old teeth and shed claws. Something to show the king. He didn’t look back.

#

The great _Mogul_ with his Chest so full of all his Cloves and Mace,

The _Grecian_ Youth _Bucefalus_ he manfully did bestride,

But these with their Worthies nine, St. _George_ did them deride;

 _Gustaphus Adolphus_ was _Swedland_ 's Warlike King;

But St. _George_ , St. _George_ he pull'd forth the Dragon's sting:

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

The bright sunlight blinded him as he exited the cave. Warm and golden it illuminated the cave entrance. It also stopped him from seeing his attacker and their very sharp sword.

“What have you done!”

The voice was female, low, and furious. Those were the things that Rip noticed before he was being attacked.

“Wait!” he said, drawing his sword and blinking furiously to dispel the sunspots occluding his vision, “I don’t-”

“Don’t you, _Sir Knight_ -” the last words were hissed with a venom commonly reserved for politicians, “-she was doing nothing wrong! She was peaceful! And then you had to come along and prove yourself- probably on an idiotic quest for fame and glory-”

Rip ducked a particularly vicious blow and turned so that he could finally see his opponent. She was not a young woman judging by the silver threading through her hair and the laugh lines evident at the corners of her eyes. That didn’t stop her from attacking him with the strength and passion rarely seen in the most devout of knights.

“I didn’t!” he said retreating backward and acutely aware of the river lapping at his heels, “I swear that I didn’t. The dragon- she was old. And she died while I watched her, and I am sorry for that. I- I couldn’t help her, but I most certainly did not kill her.”

The woman stopped before him, her sword pointed squarely at his eyes. It was perfectly steady.

“Show me your sword,” she said. Carefully, slowly, Rip bent down and placed his sword on the ground in front of him. Hands raised in surrender, he took several steps (incidently straight into the river), allowing her to approach. Keeping an eye on him all the while she did so, bending down to properly examine his sword for any traces of blood or violence.

“You swear that you did Freya no harm?”

“What?”

“The dragon. Freya. You swear upon the saints that you did her no harm?”

“I swear,” Rip said, “And- for what it’s worth she went peacefully.”

There was a moment of quiet and Rip was afraid that she wouldn’t believe him. That she’d pick up her sword again and attack. Then her face collapsed, and she started to cry. The swords dropped from her hands. She didn’t seem to care.

“She was my first friend,” she said, tears running down her face, “My first and very best friend.”

Cautiously Rip lowered his hands. And then he crossed to her and sat. He didn’t offer any comfort and neither did she ask for any but they sat there together in silence and mutual understanding.

After another moment the woman gave one last decisive sniff and then looked up at Rip. “I am Cyneburg,” she said, “And if you have been sent by the king to bring me back then you will be disappointed.”

“I’m-” he was going to use his alias but what he heard from his mouth was instead, “-Rip. And I haven’t been sent by the king.”

“Good,” she said, getting to her feet and collecting her sword, “Because he can’t have us. Any of us.”

“Us?” Rip said.

And Cyneburg smiled. It was wild and showed far too many teeth.

“Us,” she said, “What do you think happened to all those human sacrifices?”

#

_Poldragon_ and _Cadwallader_ of _British_ Blood do boast,

Tho' _John_ of _Gaunt_ his Foes did daunt, St. _George_ shall rule the roast;

 _Agamemnon_ and _Clemedon_ and _Macedon_ did Feats,

But compared to our Champion, they are but meerly Cheats;

Brave _Malta_ Knights. in _Turkish_ Fights, their brandish'd Swords out drew;

But St. _George_ , St. _George_ met the Dragon, and run him thro' and thro';

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

Wælgengaswîc was a bustling village, with children running through the streets and the smell of cooking meat in the air. The children surrounding Rip, _his_ children as he was trying not to think of them as, clustered more closely around him.

The snatches of conversation, in at least two languages as far as Rip could tell, fell silent as the residents noticed his arrival. In front of him, Cyneburg marched tall and unafraid, her sword sheathed prominently on her hip. Only the redness of her eyes betrayed the fact that she was anything but the successful leader of a prosperous settlement.

“Tyra,” she snapped, “I need you to call the council.”

Tyra, a dark-haired woman with large, expressive eyes, looked up in shock. “A council?” she said, “But-”

“Just do it,” Cyneburg said. She hesitated. “Please.”

Tyra studied the other woman’s face for a long moment, and then she nodded. “It’ll take me a while,” she said, “Æðelflæd hasn’t yet returned from the fields. She’s showing our new residents around, and-”

“Helka and Jorunn?” Rip asked, interrupting, “They made it out here?”

“He’s a friend,” Cyneburg said. Tyra did not look convinced, and looked less than pleased at being interrupted, but nodded an affirmative.

“Good,” Rip said, “I’m glad they’re safe.”

And they were safe. Probably safer than if they had stayed in Jórvík: Wælgengaswîc, from what little he had been able to see of the town, was equally safe from the wars ravaging the country and the unease that permeated the entirety of the new Kingdom of England as the Danes and the Anglo Saxons were forced into uneasy alliance.

“In fact,” Rip continued, absently stroking Sassa’s hair, “I don’t suppose you have room for, oh, a dozen more?”

#

As fierce as either _Vandal_ , _Goth, Sarazen_ or _Jew;_

The Potent _Holophernus_ as he lay in his bed,

In came Wise _Judith_ and subtilly stole his Head.

Brave _Cyclops_ stout, with _Jove_ he fought, altho' he shour'd down Thunder;

But St. _George_ kill'd the Dragon, and was not that a Wonder?

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Denis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Hony soit qui maly pence._

#

The claws made a delightfully dramatic clang on the stone of the Tribunal’s floor. Rip noted with amusement that they still hadn’t managed to fix the ceiling where Gideon had burst in, contenting themselves with securing an oiled linen over the hole instead.

“I have returned victorious,” Rip declared standing before the throne and staring down the king. On his shoulder, Gideon gave another vicious caw. This audience was nothing like his first: courtiers were crowded into the hall and it was uncomfortably warm with their combined body heat. Rip’s legend had preceded him on his journey back to the city, running in front of him and becoming more and more embellished until at the gates of Jórvík the minstrels were singing that he had slain a beast made of pure fire, sent by Satan himself.

“So you have,” Æthelstan replied slowly looking down at the claws and teeth deposited before him. They were nothing that he had ever seen before, Rip knew this.

“I am to take it that you have slain the dragon, then?”

“The dragon,” Rip said, “Will no longer be a problem.” Though there might be an increase of raiding parties from the dales, he didn’t say. The inhabitants of Wælgengaswîc were very independent but were not entirely self-sufficient. Yet.

“Then I can do nothing but thank you, brave Sir George,” the king said. His eyes were very dark and very intense, and they didn’t leave Rip’s face. He said all of the correct words, his voice loud enough to echo throughout the room. There was a sigh of satisfaction from the onlookers.

“What prize can I offer you in return for this heroic deed?” the king continued, face pained.

“I require nothing,” Rip replied. He knew his part in this fairytale as well as any: the brave, pious and humble knight. “However-” he continued before the king could dismiss him, “-I must warn you that the dragon was sent by the devil himself to sow discord between the Saxon and the Norse people. The Lord above guided my quest to slay the beast and to restore peace to this good kingdom of England. Through His actions you have been saved. If-” he leant closer and lowered his voice so that only the king could hear, “-there is any future…trouble between the two English peoples then the dragon may have no choice but to return.”

He smiled at Æthelstan whose jaw was clenched so tightly that his jaw much be aching.

“Something to remember.”

Without waiting for an answer, Rip turned on his heel and swept out of the door, his brown cloak flaring out behind him. The crowds parted before him.

“What do you think, Gideon,” he murmured once he had left the palace, “Suitably dramatic?”

“They won’t forget it,” Gideon said, “That’s for certain.”

“Good,” Rip said.

Gideon leapt from her perch on his shoulder and took flight, soaring in front of him and leading the way back to the Waverider.

“Are you ready to go home?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Rip, “I am.”

#

_Mark Anthony_ I'll warrant you plaid Feats with _Egypt'_ s Queen;

Sir _Eglamore_ that valiant Knight, the like was never seen;

Grim _Gorgon_ 's Might was known in fight; old _Bevis_ most Men frighted,

The _Mermidons_ & _Prester Johns,_ why were not these Men knighted?

Brave _Spinoa_ took in _Breda, NASSAW_ did it Recover:

But St. _George,_ St. _George_ turn'd the Dragon over and over:

_St._ George _he was for_ England, _St._ Dennis _was for_ France,

_Sing, Honi soit qui maly pence._

**Author's Note:**

> The song is the new ballad of saint George and the dragon, a 17th century ballad. This version is from the national library of Scotland http://ebba.english.ucsb.edu/ballad/34079/xml 
> 
> Saint George was a saint who, according to the Golden Legend, was an ex-Roman soldier who slew a dragon and saved (and baptised) a princess in Libya. He was said to have been from Silene. 
> 
> This story takes place in October 927, three months after the treaty of Eamont Bridge. This treaty marked the creation of England as we know it today, and King Æthelstan was the first styled king of the English
> 
> The Dragon is actually a Dilophosaurus, a carnivorous dinosaur from the Early Jurassic approximately 193 million years ago. They lived in North America so this one has travelled in time as well as space! 
> 
> The name of the settlement that the ‘sacrifices’ established is me messing around with Anglo Saxon! Wælgengaswîc with Wælgenga meaning dragon and wîc meaning village, so Dragon’s Village. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta reader and cheerleader ThebanSacredBand. 
> 
> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


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